In Vivo
by ElvenDestiny
Summary: Referred from doctor to doctor, a young girl and her parents have been on an agonizing diagnostic odyssey for years. Can House’s team prevent him from risking the girl’s precarious health simply to satisfy his love of the challenge? Chase-Cam-House


_**in vivo**_

"_within the living" – __experimentation done in or on the living tissue of a whole, living organism as opposed to a partial or dead one or a controlled environment_

Disclaimer: If I owned House, you would be watching this, not reading it, and it probably wouldn't be a hit TV show, right? No copyright infringement intended.

Notes: Retitled, rewritten, and most importantly, going to be continued! It's definitely post-"Hunting" and post-"The Mistake" but I guess it could be considered a little AU. I should also make clear that the summary doesn't mean this is going to be ChaseCamHouse threesome, but that the story is about the three of them in relation to each other.

**1 : potential**

It had been two weeks. Well, two weeks and one day, since it was a Monday. Chase slumped in the conference table chair, accidentally swiveling it so that his leg almost kicked Cameron's. The near miss didn't revive her from the glazed-eyed statue that she had become; it was early in the morning, but not _that _early. Across the table, Foreman was pretending to read an article from the latest issue of _Neurology_ but obviously was still peeved that the editors of that esteemed magazine hadn't chosen his own article for publication.

"Maybe there'll be a case," he said, giving up and closing the magazine. Instead of the satisfying, determined snap of a closing textbook, it flopped limply. Chase suppressed a sigh and hoped that House would get here soon, and with good news. No one even attempted to continue the conversation from Foreman's dull statement, but Cameron went to get coffee. Chase watched her routine actions with what could only be described as apathy.

It was insane. The inactivity was driving everyone crazy—the mental inactivity, that is. He couldn't help but hate the busy-but-bored feeling that had taken over all three of them. Chase had always thought it was how mice and hamsters probably felt when they were running in their wheel to nowhere.

"Here," Cameron said, breaking the silence, much to his relief. She sat back down in her chair and handed Chase a cup of coffee, which he took with some surprise and a murmur of thanks. Cameron often got House coffee, but he couldn't recall a single time when she'd extended the favor to him. He wasn't even sure she knew how he liked it. Cautiously sipping the hot liquid, Chase was surprised to find that it was exactly right. He must have made some kind of funny expression because Cameron started laughing, which seemed to be the last straw for an irritated Foreman.

"He's late by fifteen minutes," the neurologist said over Cameron's laughter, annoyance in every word. "House probably decided that it wasn't worth it to even come if we were just going to do clinical rounds."

"He's probably driving Wilson to suicidal thoughts," Cameron said with eloquent disgust after she'd calmed down.

"Homicidal, maybe," Chase corrected. "If we're lucky, House'll be the one with suicidal thoughts after so long."

"It's only been two weeks," she pointed out as Foreman left them. "It would be horrible to want for someone to get sick just so that we'd have something interesting to do."

"Yeah, but the whole point is that when people get sick, we fix them. When there's nothing to fix, we're useless. Don't deny that you're as eager for a case as I am. I _know _you're just as desperate as we are."

"Well, obviously," she said with a glare. Chase saluted her with his coffee rather than replying. Although the caffeine improved his morning, it was still undeniably a Monday. He couldn't imagine another whole week of this.

_This _was three highly intelligent doctors doing regular clinical rounds for two weeks without a single interesting case. The last one before that had only taken them a day to reach a diagnosis and the treatment could not have been easier. Lately, House and his team had been meeting briefly in the morning – mainly to confirm the lack of life in their department – and then went on their merry and largely separate ways. Normally Chase didn't mind the inevitable quiet period between cases since he was regularly in the ICU regardless of his work for House, but it was worse this time. In fact, it was getting downright impossible to avoid House, much less stand him. Boredom was deadly. Chase was just relearning the reality that boredom also made House deadly.

"So…how was Australia?" Cameron asked awkwardly after a while, clearly uncomfortable. Chase tensed, surprised that she would bring it up. It definitely wasn't a topic for light conversation, but he supposed it was Cameron's natural empathy speaking. She probably wanted to make sure he was all right.

"It was nice to be home," he said slowly. "Even under the circumstances, I mean. I hadn't gone back in a long time. Mostly because I didn't want to visit him." He wasn't sure what made him say the last part, drawing them into something even more personal in nature. Cameron didn't understand about his father, but she still wanted to know, and Chase…well, maybe he did want to talk about it to someone, and there really wasn't anyone else.

Cameron stirred the remainder of her coffee methodically and asked without raising her eyes to Chase. "You never told me the whole story behind it."

"So you can point out that you were right, I should have mended all the broken fences with him before it was too late, right?" It came out harsher than he had meant for it to be, almost antagonistic. But Chase was painfully aware that Cameron would interpret it as defensive.

She shook her head. "I'm in no position to judge anything, Chase. When I said what I said before, I didn't know anything. I'm sorry if it hurt you or made you feel as if it were your fault that you never said goodbye."

She was looking at him now, blue eyes wide and entreating. Chase looked anywhere but at her. The last time they had done this, he'd told her to drop it. She was right, the hate had been toxic, and he had been right, too. It had been none of her business. It still wasn't. But because they had had that conversation, she _was _in a way part of it, her and House, and he just wanted to leave that part of his life behind. No one could change the past, but they could damn well ignore it.

"It isn't a big deal," he found himself saying. "You wanted to know what he did. Well, his wife was an alcoholic and our lives were falling apart, so he just walked away from it. Found himself a new wife later, actually. I met her at the funeral."

"He left you to take care of all the broken pieces," Cameron said softly. "All the responsibility."

"I was fifteen," he said stiffly. "Not exactly a child. And he was right, you know. He didn't cause all of it, and he couldn't help that she loved him more than he loved her. The divorce was just the final straw. She died of alcohol poisoning a while later."

Cameron's eyes were tear-bright when he finally looked at her and Chased jerked his gaze away, suddenly afraid of how much he'd revealed to her. He waited for her to apologize yet again for something that she had no part in, and readied himself to pretend to accept the false condolences, polite and sincere, but altogether insincere in a way that people couldn't change. But she didn't say anything and he stared at his empty coffee mug, forcing himself to relax his white-knuckled grip on its handle.

She covered his larger hand with hers, and he involuntarily clenched his hand again, not meaning to reject her touch but unused to the display of sympathy and especially the sense that it was genuine. Not meant for anyone else to see, not done according to convention or human rituals, but simply to tell him that it mattered to her. It was almost pathetic, that someone who had barely met his father before had the most heartfelt emotion at his passing and could show it to his son.

The funeral had been large, full of revered colleagues, admirers, former patients, who all saw the other side of his father. Chase had seen that side, too, just as every boy saw his father as a hero at first. The difference was that he had been disillusioned, but they hadn't. Doctors saved lives, mended broken things, but Rowan Chase had walked away from his broken family and hadn't looked back. That was what Chase couldn't forgive him for – not the remarriage, not even his mother's death, but the abandonment.

Even until the very end, he'd still hoped like a fool that something would change. The only thing that had extinguished that last bit of expectation was the finality of death. At that point, the fact that his father had avoided telling him about his terminal cancer was about the equivalent of a cherry on top.

"Well, see you around then," he said finally to her, unaware of the huskiness of his tone. Ordinarily he would have been a little reluctant to go back to his rounds. He hadn't seen much of Cameron at all in the past few weeks since the ICU was on a different floor, even though House seemed to have no trouble interrupting him all the time. This time, there wasn't much to say, and he felt as if he'd crossed a line he shouldn't have crossed because he hadn't realized that it was there.

"See you later," she said casually enough back, but she deliberately met his gaze and it wasn't casual. It should have been awkward or embarrassing, but it wasn't at all, and that was what made it strange. Chase left with a feeling as if literally putting distance between them wouldn't change much.

They had never been exactly close or friendly, but _that night_ had changed something for him, even if Chase couldn't figure out exactly what it was. It was probably a good thing that they had left everything so clear after that last conversation. Cameron had only been experimenting and she'd just picked Chase out of convenience, because she knew he wouldn't resist. The question was why he wouldn't resist. Cameron had thought that she'd known, and Chase had thought that he'd known, too. Oddly, it was only afterwards that he became unsure.

As he took the stairs down, exchanging friendly greetings with a couple of nurses, Chase tried to focus on the patient he would be with in a few minutes, running through the list of checks to make in his mind. It wasn't a sufficient distraction, though. For that, he needed a case. But like Cameron said, he probably shouldn't hope for someone to be ill so that they could cure him, just like he probably shouldn't have slept with her in the first place.

Like being unable to stop himself from blurting out something, Chase's thoughts had circled around the one thing and eventually settled on it. He had been fairly successful in avoiding the question for weeks, but being without a serious case both helped and hindered him. He hadn't seen Cameron much, but he had little else to think about.

_Do you think I want it to?_

He could almost swear that the words were engraved in his mind. The whole thing was getting ridiculous, especially as the time dragged on. Cameron had never shown a hint of interest before the night and certainly didn't show it afterward. They were colleagues more than friends, after all, and Chase strongly suspected that he was dwelling on it for far too long.

So he deliberately questioned himself. Was he so bothered by it because it had hurt his ego? Because he still wanted more than one night? Was it even about sex or was it something else? It had stung, the way she had made the rhetorical question more like a statement of sarcasm. But what else had he expected, that they would get together after her little experiment with drugs? She probably still had feelings for House, if anyone.

Since he couldn't figure her out, and since he was frustrated with the fact that he couldn't even understand himself, Chase turned his attention to where it belonged: with his patient. He had a reassuring and confident smile in place before he walked into the grim room of the ICU, well aware of how much such things could affect others. He was tense inside but worked to dispel the tension of the atmosphere around him. Putting aside the personal and strictly keeping to the professional, Chase still wasn't sure how much of which went into his desperate wish for a case. At least it would make everything go back to normal.

o o o

"So, are you going to camp out in my office all week again while you get your minions to do your rounds for you?" Wilson asked testily, glaring at the relaxed figure occupying the chair across from his desk. He didn't know how House had gotten the keys, but he obviously did have them. Wilson had entered this morning only to be scared half out of his wits when he'd automatically turned to drop into his chair, only to find it already occupied.

"I wouldn't want to deprive you of the excitement and joy I bring to your life," House said complacently, not in the least bothered by Wilson's tone. "Besides, they're not minions. They're…"

"Ducklings?" Wilson offered.

"Precisely," House said smugly. "Cute, cuddly, without a clue of how many big bad animals are out there that think duckling is mouthwatering. They need to be taken care of, preferably by a mother duck."

Wilson fought to keep a straight face but ended up laughing anyway. "By you, you mean? You're probably the worst mother duck in the universe."

"Me? What are you talking about? You're the perfect mother duck, Wilson," House said innocently.

"Hey, they're _your _ducklings, remember."

"And you're the one who frets and worries over them, significantly more than I do," House pointed out, gesticulating with his cane. Wilson swatted it away when it came too close to his face.

"I worry about what you're doing to them, since they haven't discovered that _you're _one of those big bad animals that think duckling is mouthwatering."

"Oh, come on, they're turning out well."

"Now, why does that sound like something the witch would say to Hansel?" Wilson sighed as he got down to work, trying to ignore House's presence in the room. His friend brought an aura of irritability that made it hard to concentrate. Sometimes Wilson thought he tolerated House so well because the rest of the time he had to be the sympathetic, understanding oncologist delivering bad news. It was, well, fun to indulge in being mean, petty, and shallow once in a while, and he never had to worry about hurting House's feelings since House generally was the damager, not the damaged.

Wilson watched House play a fascinating game of catch with a ball, Wilson's office wall, and his cane for almost five minutes before he realized that he hadn't even glanced down at the file he'd opened on his desk. He reminded himself that he should review the case before the patient came in for her appointment in approximately ten minutes. Her cancer was terminal and these things had to be carefully handled. It was a challenge posed to many doctors, especially oncologists: they were supposed to give the full diagnosis, but some patients blamed them for being straightforward about the time they had to live, while others blamed them for not being specific.

One of his patients had been an artist. One he told her that she had about three months to live based on how far her cancer had progressed, she had refused to paint during all the time and had ended up living for six months in suicidal depression. Her irate daughter had chewed Wilson out later. So he wasn't so specific with the next terminal patient that he'd had, and she'd died two months later. Her family never got a chance to say goodbye because they had had no idea that she was in such a bad condition, and her two sons had come in to tell Wilson that they'd been planning for her to go on a tour of Europe before she died, which was one of her last wishes.

Sometimes there was just no right way out. Terminal cancer patients were different in that they knew when the end was near. It was back to the basic idea of whether you liked ripping a Band-Aid off or peeling it away slowly by slowly. Some people couldn't stand knowing when they would die, and other people wanted to know so they could prepare themselves and the ones they loved.

Wilson didn't know Patricia Clarkson very well. Her diagnosis had come very late and the cancer had spread throughout her body in a pattern that he could visualize in his head from years of seeing it from biopsy: a malignant crab spread over her vital organs, hence the name _cancer_, or crab. Since he didn't know her, he also didn't know the best way to approach the meeting. Cancer affected more than the person diagnosed with it. Chase was a perfect example.

"BOO!" House whispered in his ear, causing Wilson to startled upright with a shriek turned into a curse. His knee slammed painfully into his desk and he shot House his most pissed-off glare.

"Can't you go find something to do somewhere else?"

Clearly, House observed, Wilson hadn't gotten over that surprise morning greeting yet. He was _such _a kid. "Haven't you ever heard the phrase 'forgive and forget?'"

Wilson's blank look told House that he indeed had forgotten about his earlier scare. House had only succeeded in reminding him. "Haven't you ever heard the phrase, 'get lost'? Go torture Cuddy or something."

"Torture Cuddy…I wonder what would be the most effective way," House mused thoughtfully. "There are so many parts of her I can focus on."

Wilson suppressed an exaggerated groan and got up to physically shove House out of his space. "I can't believe you're being paid to sit here and bother me while Foreman pretends to be you. In case you haven't noticed, House, I'm trying to get rid of you. You've been terrorizing my patients all week, and they have more than enough to handle without having to put up with you. For that matter of fact, _I _have enough."

"'Out, damned spot! out, I say!'" House quoted. He lifted an eyebrow. "Got a guilty conscience or something, Wilson?"

"No, just finding you unbearable," Wilson said as he crowded House to the door, just in time to meet a tiny blonde woman on the other side. House made use of Wilson's momentary distraction to sneak back into the office, finding a comfortable chair in the corner.

"Dr. Wilson?" The woman began nervously, looking from him to House. "I'm a little early, but I have an appointment with you…"

Wilson smiled at her and led her in, practically exuding vibes of reassurance, House noted from his vantage point in the chair. He continued to watch almost appreciatively as Wilson worked with all the skill of an actor combined with a doctor. It was easy to see how he had ended up the head of the Department of Ontology at PPTH, personal ethical issues with marriage and fidelity aside. He was getting a feel for the woman now to anticipate her reaction to the news and to determine how to pitch it. Cameron could use lessons from Wilson. Cameron's empathy made her too emotional, to the point that it hindered her rather than helped her sometimes. Wilson was the model compassionate but professional doctor. Well, except for that one patient that he had slept with, House reminded himself.

"Now, do you have a family, Ms. Clarkson?" Wilson was asking. "People to support you in your fight?"

Fear began to shadow Patricia Clarkson's eyes as she clearly wondered where this was going and whether it was bad news. "Yes, my husband and I have two children. Please, call me Patricia." She hesitated, and then began to elaborate with useless details. House shifted in his seat, although it was comfortable, and almost wished that he had left earlier. Wilson glanced over at him but his attention went back to the woman, who obviously had forgotten all about House's presence.

She was clearly worried now. "It's been such a shock to find that I have cancer," she explained, self-conscious about her anxiety. "I have no family history; I haven't even known anyone close to me who's gone through the experience."

"I'm sorry, that's not unusual. Seventy to seventy-five percent of women with breast cancer have none of the known risk factors. Unfortunately, New Jersey is one of the states with the highest incidence of breast cancer, and no one knows exactly why yet. Toms River is known for extreme above-average levels of cancer, so there may be some environmental triggers," Wilson explained as if teaching a class.

House sighed, looking at Wilson. Was he going to drag this out forever? It wouldn't do the woman any favors. She would most likely feel betrayed that he had gotten her to feel good and relaxed before dropping the bomb on her. Wilson obviously believed that it would make it gentler, but House disagreed. _Hurry up_, he mouthed at Wilson, who pointedly ignored him.

"Patricia, I'm sorry, but you need to hear the full diagnosis and talk it over with your family. You've had the cancer for a long time already, probably a couple years. It's also a very aggressive, fast-growing form and has metastized considerably," Wilson began. Patricia's hesitant smile began to wilt and then disappeared as she tried to make sense of the medical terms.

"I don't understand," she said with a valiant effort to remain calm. "They referred me to you to discuss treatment options because you're the best oncology specialist. But you're making it sound like there's nothing you can…I can do." She choked a little bit on the last part and Wilson looked like the entire conversation was painful.

Watching from the outside, House could only shake his head. Why did Wilson torment himself this way? A straightforward answer would be easier on both of them. Of course, whichever doctor had found Patricia's cancer had transferred her to Wilson not for treatment, but to get out of breaking the news. Being the head of the Department of Ontology didn't come with many benefits and did come with a lot of downsides. Being known as a sympathetic doctor who was great with patients was even worse. Everyone took advantage of Wilson and he didn't even realize it. Or possibly he thrived on it.

Wilson leaned forward and tried another approach. "Patricia, your cancer was metastatic at presentation. That means that the breast cancer has already spread beyond the breast and into nearby lymph nodes, although this was the first diagnosis of breast cancer. Your previous doctor, Dr. Lawton, ordered special tests, called S-phase fraction and Ki-67 tests, to measure the rates of cell growth. We discovered that about twenty percent of the cancer cells are making new cells, which means the rate is unfavorably high. We also had test results on the grade of your cell growth, or the way it is growing. You have grade three cancer, which means that your cancer has disorganized, irregular growth patterns."

Quickly, one delicate hand reached out to grasp at Wilson's. Her face was frightened and her grey eyes had bruise-colored hollows beneath them, probably due to the nights of sleeplessness after she had first been told her diagnosis. "Dr. Wilson, I don't want the technical explanations," she said, a note of determination creeping into her voice. "I have time to learn about this and understand what's happening to my body later. But I need to know what to do now, how to approach this. If there is a treatment…if there's something I can do…?" Her voice wavered as she finished.

Wilson looked almost as vulnerable and exposed as the patient, House saw. Watching them was like watching a bad drama carry out, fascinating and shameful all at once. "You're in Stage III of the cancer, Ms. Clarkson." Funny how Wilson reverted back to the more formal address inadvertently, probably disconcerted by the woman's tight clasp on his hand and begging expression. Some doctors liked to play God, but they only liked it when they could save the patient in some heartwarming and dramatic way. No one ever wanted to be God when confronted with a dying patient.

"What he means is that you have terminal cancer," House said suddenly from his chair. "There will be no treatment, aside from either attempting to prolong what time you have left, or making it as comfortable as possible."

Patricia Clarkson's creamy, perfect complexion turned a chalk white and suddenly she looked much younger than her age of 43. Wilson muffled his profane exclamation as her grip went slack and leaned across the desk, trying to reach her, just as she fainted.

"House, can you _leave _now!? You've had your bit of fun with your insensitivity, so go bother someone else!" Thankfully, Patricia had been sitting, but he wanted House gone before she regained consciousness. Wilson didn't even want to begin thinking about patient-doctor confidentiality. He didn't even spare a glance as House meekly exited, faced with his rare true wrath.

An hour later, after he had finished with Patricia and smoothed over the panic House's blunt words had wrought, Wilson leaned back in his chair and sighed. It was definitely wrong to wish for some kind of special virus to infect someone, and it was supposed to be a good sign that House hadn't had any cases. But House was long overdue for a good case, and like cancer, it was affecting everyone, ducklings, best friend, and all. He would just have to see what he could do.

o o o

"Nothing?" Wilson repeated with a tone very similar to despair. "Are you sure?"

Cuddy gave him a withering expression. "What exactly do you want me to do, manufacture some kind of illness to keep House happy?"

"Something along those lines," Wilson mumbled beneath his breath. "Can't you at least make sure that you can keep him out of my office?"

"Well, you can lock it when you're not there and when you are, don't let him bully you into having him there," Cuddy said reasonably, only devoting half her attention to Wilson. She was trying to figure out a problem for the month's budget and wondering why she had accepted this administrative position. Oh, right. Higher salary. It was a bit like a street cop's transition to a desk job for higher salary.

"He has the key," Wilson all but whined. "I don't even know how he got it. Besides, you don't seem to be very successful in keeping him out of _here_, either."

"Isn't it odd that we're all talking about one of the most brilliant and innovative diagnosticians in the country as if he were a child?" Cuddy wondered idly as she wrote out a couple of memos. Wilson's complaints weren't new. Foreman had visited earlier in the day and even Cameron had dropped by to appeal to her to rein House in, as if she had him on a leash in the first place. Child metaphor? Maybe a curious cat on a leash would be more appropriate. Few people were stupid enough to try to leash a cat. They couldn't be walked like dogs and couldn't be controlled, either.

"House is most definitely a cat," she said distractedly to an uncomprehending Wilson, and waved him away, only to have Foreman walk in again, catching the door as Wilson left.

"_Now_ what is it, Dr. Foreman?"

"Do you know how impossible it is to pretend to be Dr. House?" Foreman griped. "I had not one, not even two, but _three _patients come in today just to hash out whatever he did to them on their last visit. They might be physically cured, but House gave them some major emotional issues. One guy's wife practically attacked me as soon as I introduced myself."

"And…?" Cuddy said absently, in a tone of 'what do you expect me to do about it?'

"It's not even ethical for me to be doing his clinical rounds! How is it that…" Cuddy tuned Foreman out, a skill honed by practice, and finished one of the most disgusting budget forms she had ever filled out. Her attention was captured again only when Foreman mentioned the word 'case.'

"You guys have a new case?" she asked, unable to keep the relief from her voice. "I suggest that you go tell Wilson. He'll treat you very nicely for the news."

"No, we _don't_, and that's the whole problem!" Foreman huffed in exasperation. Cuddy took a moment to examine him, inwardly amused. Foreman was the most stable of the four and it was rare to see him looking so harassed.

"What about that last one I handed you two days ago?"

"The 73-year-old man with the misdiagnosed pneumonia? We did an abdominal CT to see the cause of his liver dysfunction and saw the thrombosis, so we did a lung perfusion scan, a chest CT, and placed a filter in the inferior vena cava. It's all in the report. It took less than half a day and House barely woke up from his nap. We just did all the work ourselves."

"Well, I can't help you," said Cuddy. "It's inevitable that there are going to be times when no one is cursed with some undiagnosable disease. Anyway, you can go try to find House and tell him that he should be doing his own rounds. You never know, he might end up finding something unexpected."

Foreman could only agree and sincerely hope that something unexpected _would _turn up.

o o o

"Is this Dr. Chase?" came the voice over the phone. Chase experienced a moment of déjà vu as he heard the title that had always really belonged to his father. "I don't think you remember me, but we met at Rowan's funeral and my husband and I are old friends of your father. As a matter of fact, it wasn't until the funeral that I realized that his son was working with one of the top diagnosticians in the U.S., a Dr. House, I believe? I was hoping that you could hear me out because I think he could help us."

The rush of words in the British accent left Chase briefly confused as he struggled to sort out the meaning in them. Right, so some friend of his father's wanted to use him as a connection to House. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised, considering House's reputation.

"I'm so sorry to bring up the subject of your father's death, Robert, I hope you can forgive me. You used to come over to our house when you were young, do you remember? Oh, I forgot to tell you. I'm Shirley Pierce and my husband is James Pierce. James went to med school with Rowan."

Surprisingly, Chase was indeed beginning to remember the Pierces. He had barely acknowledged it verbally before Shirley rushed on. "I'm calling about my daughter, Emily. You see, she's only eleven but very sick, and no one has been able to find out what's wrong with her. I'm sure you've heard of those diagnostic odysseys, where the parents are referred from specialist to specialist without getting any definitive answers. We can't even think about treatment until we know what's wrong with her."

Chase's raised hopes about a case almost sank right then and there when she mentioned the words _diagnostic odyssey_. House had a strong aversion to them. In fact, he thought they were ridiculous, a product of incompetent doctors rather than a truly mystifying disease, and his beliefs were backed up by the frequent misdiagnoses caused by confused doctors. It would have made sense for House to feel challenged by a disease that had baffled so many others, but usually either the patient died (too hard) or a ridiculous diagnosis was finally found (too easy). Neither put House in a particularly good mood, and his team practically lived to produce his good moods.

"Uh, Ms. Pierce, I'm sure that you've been referred to several medical specialties already, so what makes you think that Dr. House might know what's wrong with your child?" Chase was sympathetic to their plight, but knew better than to expect that sympathy would win House over.

"He's the best in the country, isn't he? Rest assured, if you're hesitating because it's about money, we can give generous compensation for his time, and it's no problem for us to go to the U.S. to visit him if he will accept an appointment."

Shirley's words didn't surprise Chase. He remembered the Pierces only dimly because he had been hardly more than a child during those times but knew their general background. Mr. and Mrs. Pierce had moved from the upper crust of London society to join its equivalent in Australia after their marriage and were considerably wealthy, both from earnings and inheritance. They were one of those golden couples that were genuinely well liked, came from old money but also made their own, and generally the epitome of what high society was supposed to be about. James Pierce was a notable anesthesiologist. Chase couldn't remember what Shirley did, but he guessed that it was beyond reproach as well.

Chase's parents had been like that too, before his mother had begun on her spiral down to death, assisted by a dying relationship and plenty of G and T. The memory brought a bitter taste to his mouth, but Chase pushed it away. It was clear that this golden couple, too, were dealing with problems.

"Well, I can't promise you anything," Chase said, trying to find a break in the accented gush of words. Shirley's voice would usually be a joy to listen to, but there was an undercurrent of strain in her words now made her consonants sound harsher. "If you can give me a brief summary of Emily's medical history, I can discuss the case with Dr. House, however."

"Oh, thank you, dear. I remember how you were always such a nice boy. You know, James and I used to discuss having a child when we were younger when you visited our house with your parents. It would have been so nice if you and Emily had been closer in age," Shirley said, sounding as if she were close to tears. Chase shook off the spell that her voice had temporarily put him under and redirected her, holding a pen and notepad ready.

It sounded more and more promising as Shirley described her daughter's medical problems. Although her rushed speech had given Chase the initial impression that she was a little flighty, when she spoke about Emily, it was with utter sobriety. The Shirley that was concerned about her daughter was intelligent and quite well versed in medicine, given all that she and her husband had been through. As if trying to make up for her earlier lapse, she gave no impression of emotionality in tears or near-hysteria, even while describing the worst of the last five years. Despite himself, Chase was left feeling impressed and quite optimistic that House would take the case.

He promised Shirley that he would get back to her within a day or two, gave her his personal phone number, and inwardly hoped that it would eventually work out for Emily. It was enough that so many marriages ended up in divorce these days. Shirley and James were remnants of an earlier age, like the transition from aristocracy to _bourgeois _class that had occurred after World War I. Only they represented a kind of idealized life that few people ever achieved, but everyone wanted: beauty, happiness, luxury, style, and more. Of course, the most common wish was for health, happiness, and fortune, and the Pierces were missing one vital element of perfection.

It would be better for him to think about how he would present the case to House first, Chase decided. He could mull it over during lunch, though he wasn't particularly hungry yet. But before he had even left the room, his cell phone rang. He grabbed it and flipped it open without looking to see who had called, tearing his notes off the notepad with the other hand.

"Shirley? Did you forget to tell me something?"

There was a pause before Cameron said hello in a kind of embarrassed, surprised voice. Chase almost dropped his phone and _did _drop the piece of paper. Cameron hadn't called him on his cell phone since…he couldn't remember. Well, since the night that she'd called him over to her apartment. He remembered perfectly, he just didn't want to.

"I was going to ask if you've eaten already," Cameron said after another moment, clearly wishing that she hadn't called.

"Uh, no, I haven't," Chase replied quickly, swooping down to retrieve his paper. His eyes scanned the bullet points again and he suddenly realized that a perfect opportunity had presented itself. Belatedly, he also realized that Cameron had been waiting for the expected response while he'd been rereading Emily's case.

"Do you want to have lunch together?" he asked. "We can grab some sandwiches and go up to the conference room. I want to ask you about this possible case." The sandwiches were the most bearable of the hospital food, and he hoped the combination of work and play would make it slightly less awkward to be eating with Cameron.

"Well, I don't want to take you away from some appointment," Cameron said a little sharply. "I mean, you were expecting someone else to call, right?"

"That ties in with the case," Chase told her. He found it humorous in a hopeless kind of way that she was annoyed that he'd answered the phone with another woman's name. But all their hopes might have been answered at last, if this was the dream case that he thought it was. "I'll tell you all about it when I see you, provided you agree to come. Please?"

She relented. "I'll see you there."

o o o

A/N (2-24-08): Feedback would be loved, and this time you definitely can expect more of this story. I was originally inspired by a biotech lecture a while ago but hated what I ended up writing, so except for the first part, I didn't even post the rest online. The title change is really a change in the overall concept of the story and is hopefully more interesting than the totally 'bleh' title from before, which was uninspiring to say the least. Just to warn you, I haven't decided yet how much I'll change from my original draft, which had HouseCam, ChaseCam, and HouseChase all in some form. Are you guys interested in how that potentially plays out or turned off by it? Please review and let me know!


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